Charmed 5 months

_So then today is my five month anniversary! And because of it I am going to update EVERYTHING yes that includes Past Secrets which I have seriously been neglecting...sorry about that..._

_And just for you guys – special one shot! Only thing I do know is it'll be very depressing. Dunno how long it'll end up though I'm just making it up as I go along here... (So if it stops making sense at some point...)_

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Blood was dripping down the teen's arms leaving red streaks on the pale skin already littered with scars from previous deliberate attacks on his body. The blade had been thrown to the floor, the steel tainted with slowly drying blood. The floor hadn't escaped the onslaught either but at least he hadn't done it over carpet this time; that had made a mess. The boy's arms were shaking as he held them up to his face, in almost fascination at watching the rivulets of blood running over his skin. A noise from outside the room made him jump and he hurriedly tried to get rid of the evidence, if anyone walked in here now...

The sound moved on without opening the door and the brunette team breathed a sigh of relief, no one had found out – about either of his secrets. He leant backwards tilting his head so that it hit the wall and enjoyed the feeling of control. He smiled slightly remembering how good it had felt the first time he had done this, how nice it had felt as the blade sliced through his skin drawing blood and the release it gave him. It was funny how just that one thing had helped him so much and how much better he felt after doing it; this was something she couldn't control no matter how hard she tried.

He sighed and stood up turning on the shower, his excuse for being in the bathroom, to try and make sure nobody suspected what he was doing. The only upside to using this excuse was that it made it easier to clean up afterwards, he could easily spray the floor to get rid of it and the blood from his body was just washed down the drain. He licked some of it off enjoying the copper taste of it in his mouth before he stripped and stood under the shower and watched the blood mix with the water and disappear. He sighed happily and turned the shower as hot as it would go glad of the distraction from the now burning pains in his arms. He almost regretted the fact that whitelighters couldn't heal self inflicted wounds but then reminded himself of how good it felt knowing that he had done them and not let someone else carve into his skin, not letting someone else gain control over him again.

Groaning as he heard a hammering on the door he turned off the shower and stepped out pulling on his brother's old tracksuit bottoms, of course she'd never buy him new ones – just cast a spell so they looked that way, and a faded black long sleeve shirt in an attempt to cover up the fresh cuts and their ancestral scars. Grabbing his blade and hiding a wince as it cut through his hand, he pulled open the door and muttered to the person standing there not really caring who it was.

"It's all yours." He said before he padded off into his room before anyone could see the expression of pain on his face as blood started sticking to the sleeves of his top. Closing the door behind him he laid on the floor on his stomach reaching under the bed to find the first aid kit he'd bought after the first time he's done this. Opening it on auto pilot he reached in and grabbed gauze and fresh bandages before tightly binding them around his wrists – he didn't really care if they got infected. No one would even find out they were there; glamours took care of that problem and had done for the past 13 years; although until about a year ago they'd been hiding different scars, not just the ones he gave himself.

At least he no longer had to share a room, the perfect son had been granted his own which meant that he had had to have one too; not that she had been happy about that but could she really deny her golden boy? It was so much easier for him to hide what he was doing to himself, but then it was also so much easier for her to hide what she was doing as well. Nothing could just be simple in his life, every good thing had to have an equally bad thing happen else it just wouldn't be his life. The only thing he'd found so far that came without that loophole was the cutting. There was no way he was going to stop it – it was the only thing that appeared to be keeping him sane enough the hide everything from the world. No one had ever noticed and he wasn't about to start letting them now, he couldn't afford to become careless.

And he wouldn't.

He drifted off into an uneasy, pain filled sleep; his dreams filled with memories of attacks, demon and the others and all laced with fear and exhaustion. 13 years and no one had noticed, 13 years and he was still glamouring, 13 years and nobody cared, 13 years and he was still living in pain and fear, 13 years and she still wouldn't leave him alone, 13 years and it was just getting worse and worse. It had been five years since he had allowed himself a friend; the last one having been killed by a demon and in those five years he had never once been able to mourn, never once been able to move on, never once been able to forgive himself for bringing the death about, never once been given the space he needed to heal. That was a luxury reserved for everyone but him; his brother had been able to, his dad had, his aunts and even his Mom had had a chance to move on but he hadn't.

Morning came all too soon for the 16 year old and he moaned as he forced himself out of bed automatically piling on the glamours to make sure his secret was kept from the rest of the world. The wounds from the night before had barely started to heal but he didn't really care they were still in his control. Again he pulled out his classic long sleeved shirt and baggy jeans, not even attempting to calm his hair – it was a pointless task, no longer even worth the effort.

He dragged himself downstairs making a beeline for the coffee machine – it seemed none of his family could function without coffee on a morning once they got to about 14. He was the first up as usual; how else would he get near the machine? Gulping down the steaming hot liquid he turned to see his Mom stood in the doorway.

"Morning Mom." He said nervously. "How are you?" Please don't let her be in a bad mood, please!

She just glared at him and stole the rest of coffee, the teen bolted upstairs before she had time to say or do anything – avoidance was generally better than trying to prevent in, it had a higher success rate; well it had kept him alive and functioning hadn't it? She scowled at his retreating back – what had she done to deserve such a useless brat of a son? He wasn't even worthy of carrying their surname, maybe she should change it to her father's; it would be much harder to trace him back to them if she did, and that would be worth it.

The brunette slammed the door shut behind him and collapsed against him gasping for breath – really not a good idea to run, he mused, the amount of damage she did to my lungs and heart the amount of times my ribs broke and with her punches, not to mention the times she's blown me up it's a wonder I can breathe at all! He pulled himself up and sat on his bed shaking desperately trying to calm down his breathing; he was failing miserably as always but it would be worse if he didn't try.

He heard his brother run past his room and begrudgingly forced himself across the room and out of the door, resigning himself to another day of hate and abandonment. Not even his brother could really be bothered to care anymore; he got too much love from his Mom to notice that his brother got none. He trudged downstairs for the second time that day and was met by a smell of pancakes that made him want to hurl, he really needed to eat more but he felt sick at the mere thought of putting the food into his mouth let alone swallowing it. He skirted past the pancakes giving them as wide a berth as possible and headed towards the, thankfully free, coffee maker.

He gratefully sipped at the steaming liquid, still trying to settle his stomach after the smell of pancakes had assaulted it. He cast a nervous glance upwards and noticed with relief that his Mom had left the room. One crisis averted, he quickly washed up the mug before she could come back in and complain – discreetly of course, her golden boy couldn't know what was going on now could he? That just wouldn't do.

He winced as he felt the fresh wounds on his arm starting to tear open and walked off. He willed himself to keep moving, not wanting to stop and have to look at anyone too closely; or have anyone look too closely at him – he knew he was skinny but people would question if they saw how easily you could see his bones through the skin. He could glamour that away but that would be something his mother would notice, she appeared to like the fact that he was so skinny and weak – it made him easier to take her anger out on him.

Pulling the door open he slipped outside, it was just part of his regular morning routine now; he didn't even need to be told to leave early anymore, it was easier if he just went. Everything in his life was easier if he just did it, no questions asked. If it meant he survived then it was good, if it meant that he didn't get hurt – well not hurt as much – then it was worth being effectively a slave. It was cold, well it always seemed cold to Chris whether it or not it actually was, and he shivered, cursing himself for forgetting his jacket – again. It was what, the third time this week he'd managed to forget it? His thin body was struggling to keep itself warm, not helped by the fact that all he'd had this morning was coffee.

He made his way to his usual spot, a broken swing in the local park. He liked sitting there; it was somewhere quiet and away from the rest of the world, half hidden behind the overgrown trees lining the edge of the park. No one could see him anyway; he always cloaked the entire area, it wasn't like he wanted to be found so there was no point in letting people know he was there plus it stopped them from pulling down the dilapidated swing which, to him, meant a lot. The peeling paint of the tired old swing was an almost perfect reflection of how he felt; this was the closest he had ever felt to home.

Home and love were almost a foreign concept to the brunette, for as long as he could remember no one had shown him either; friendship he had received but lost, fear was something he constantly lived with, as was pain, his hope of freedom had disappeared long ago, lost when he was 9 years old never to return again, the same with his trust. So little of the boy that had existed at three years old had stayed with him; lost as his mother turned on him and betrayed his innocence.

He pulled himself out of his memories, desperately trying to forget and close it all away; just wanting to get through the day and not get beaten; he couldn't hope for anything more, he knew it was hopeless. Hoping that it stopped completely was a laughable thought, even hoping he could get through the day was pushing the limits of his almost nonexistent hope; the hope of one day without a beating was almost too much to wish for. He couldn't remember a day without at least one hit or insult directed at him, not one day had passed when his mother hadn't shown how much she preferred his brother over him.

Many times the teen had wished that he had simply never been born; he seemed to make everyone's lives worse. His only friend had been killed when a demon had come to attack him but had missed his target and caught the other 11 year old who had rushed in to defend his friend. His friend's dad had barely even looked at him since, still hurting over how close his son's friend had come to being the one killed and not his own son. It wasn't much of a surprise, he thought, I should have been the one to die, I'm that pathetic that I should have been the one that got killed, he shouldn't have had to defend me – if I can't even defend myself how am I supposed to defend Innocents? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do, protect them? How can I do that when I couldn't even save my friend?

The brunette had started crying without even realising, soft sobs heaving through his body at the memory of his friend. Killed trying to protect him. The teen had never been able to accept that fact, trying to had been impossible given his life. His chest was starting to burn with the effort of breathing through his tears but the 16 year old couldn't stop. He hadn't yet had a proper chance to mourn; previous trips to the swing had generally involved tending to his cuts and bruises and trying to get over whatever had been done to him that day. This was the first chance he had properly been able to feel his friend's death.

Slowly getting up he made his way towards the cemetery, treading an almost unknown path towards his friend's grave. He'd only been here once, for the funeral he almost hadn't been able to attend due to injury, since then he'd either been in too much pain or not allowed out of the house. He'd never managed to bring himself to come here before still not really believing that his friend was truly gone and wasn't coming back. Now that he'd finally managed it five years on he almost regretted it as he felt his chest tighten up seeing his friend's name on the grave stone. Stealing a single flower from a nearby gravestone he placed it tenderly on the mound of earth in front of it.

"Good bye." He whispered as he shifted from his crouched position until he was sitting on the grass, silent tears running down his face. He could barely breathe as guilt, held back for five years, overtook his body and his silent tears became full blown sobs that shook his frail form. He stared at the cold, hard piece of rock through tear filled eyes and let his emotions overcome him turning him into a sobbing, shaking mess curled up on the grass in the middle of the cemetery. A thought in the back of his head reminded him that his Aunt Prue was buried here as well, but he decided that he couldn't deal with seeing two people he loved buried in one day. He'd seen his Aunt, although the memory was so fuzzy he couldn't remember whether it was her spirit being summoned or just as a whitelighter; a lot of his memories were like that after being beaten senseless so many times. He'd been known to lose an entire day of memories because of that; it was no surprise that he barely had any memories of this event.

Almost 3 hours later he uncurled himself clenching his teeth as pain shot through almost his entire body making it so tempting to just curl back up and let the elements take him. He'd done that before, someone had jumped in at the last minute and healed him; he had no idea who and wasn't really all that bothered, but he often regretted having been given the chance to live again. He just didn't feel that he deserved it. It had, he noted in surprise, started raining at some point whilst he was lying on the floor meaning that his hair and shirt were now plastered to his skin and his jeans felt like they weighed a ton, clinging uncomfortably to his legs.

Having to push through pain with every single step he took, the teen slowly left the cemetery casting one last mournful glance over his shoulder towards his friend's grave. He could, no he would, come back later. One visit would not give him the closure he needed; it was a start, admittedly a start that was 5 years late, but still a start that had been badly needed for years. Tearing himself away from the sight he slowing started making his way back towards the Manor; steps becoming smaller and slower with each metre he took towards the dreaded house. The house seemed to dominate the entire street and the second he turned the corner it was all he could see. The houses and people nearby were nonexistent to the 16 year old as he forced himself to keep moving towards the house, keep placing one foot in front of the other, and keep quelling his instinct to turn and run away, run from the pain and the hurt he knew he would find behind the closed doors.

The steps arrived and he wearily ascended them, wondering how to explain why he had stayed out in the rain instead of coming home. The answer to himself was easy – fear; but to his family he had no idea what to say, the most he could hope for was no one to notice him as he slipped upstairs to change into something dry. His hope was squashed as he saw his father open the door, presumably planning on going to pick something up for the meal his Mom would be making tonight.

"I lost track of time." He muttered as he walked past. He didn't stop to hear the response, it wasn't important – getting inside and dry was, he was freezing; the cuts on his arm stinging didn't help much either. He sprinted up the stairs, once again regretting it as he struggled to catch his breath afterwards, and shut his bedroom door. He pulled off his shirt, wincing as it tore away from his skin and burrowed himself under his duvet in a desperate attempt to get warm. His jeans would have to wait given that he now had zero energy to pull them off. Shivering he pulled his duvet over his head and curled himself back into an almost carbon copy of the ball he had been in at the graveyard.

2 hours later the sixteen year old was woken by his name being screamed up the stairs relentlessly. He groaned and forced himself to untangle himself from his duvet; relinquishing the heat it gave him. Grabbing the first shirt he found he got dressed and made his way downstairs all the time being assaulted by the yelling of his name. Halfway down the brunette seriously considered going back to bed as the unmistakable cooking aromas were once again being forced upon him, but he forced himself to keep moving if only out of terror of what would happen if he didn't rather than an actual want to do so.

He slipped into a seat easily hiding a grimace and smiled. Hiding and faking were things you got really good at if you had practice, and he'd had a lot of it. That had been the one thing his mother was good for – turning him into a great actor. How else was he meant to keep her secret? And his? Finding one would inevitably lead to the other, and both were things he would rather keep hidden. After all no one would believe it was his mother, she was supposed to be perfect! So why should he let himself in for being called a liar and an attention seeker? No one would even want to believe that the great woman they once knew had turned her youngest into a barely alive, suicidal teenager, so there was no point. He just contented himself with knowing that, well actually he didn't but nobody knew that. Even if anyone did suspect a thing it was just brushed off as him still getting over the loss of his friend; he'd been the same for so long though it was rare that anyone noticed anything if it was to do with him.

Forcing a grateful smile onto his face he began to eat, well play around with, the food on his plate in fake appreciation of the meal his mother had prepared. The small amounts he did eat were almost impossible to swallow as his entire body tried to force it out of his system, rejecting every tiny mouthful. But he carried on now willing to endure the wrath of his mother if he didn't touch a thing; his father wouldn't be too impressed either to be honest. He wasn't the sort to beat but if he had to he'd have stern words with his son about being ungrateful, which would always be followed by something from his mother; that never changed.

He disappeared up the stairs the first chance he got, conveniently clearing his own plate to hide the amount of food he had left on it; it wasn't his fault he had no appetite but he had no way of explaining it to the others. Not without spilling his secrets anyway. Caught in an emotional dilemma the 16 year old soon found himself slumped against his door, head in his hands shaking. Given that this happened almost daily the teen didn't try and do much to stop it – it either worked or he ended up in a full blown panic attack; the second choice being the one he wanted to avoid.

He had no idea what time it was, his watch had broken long ago and his cell was in his mother's custody; for misbehaving. He laughed, he hadn't had his cell once since he got it – except when they were going out, but basically that was just so his dad and brother wouldn't wonder why he never had it on him. Although, that was the last thing they should be wondering about. He laughed bitterly, the two were so obviously blind to anything they didn't want to see that it was no wonder they only noticed ridiculous things like how he never had his phone on him.

In an exact repeat of the night before, the 16 year old made his way to the bathroom under the pretence of a shower, blade easily slicing through his skin from wrist to elbow blood spilling out. He hadn't cut anything major, not that anyone would care if he did. He allowed the blood to flow freely for a minute before rinsing it off under the tap, occasionally pausing to create other small little nicks in his arms; only to keep the pain going but still they felt good. He spared a moment to glance at his arms and looked almost shocked at the amount of scars, old and new; and still healing cuts there were criss-crossing in random patterns across his pale skin.

Thankfully tonight no one was hammering on the door so the brunette was left in peace as he cleaned up the bathroom; it really wouldn't do for anyone to find out what he was doing. The pain, the 16 year old could happen; the emptiness it left afterwards was the hardest, desperately wanting to cut again – to feel again. That was the part he struggled with. Not being able to feel anything afterwards. He wasn't an idiot; he knew he's probably end up killing himself; or at least coming pretty close to doing so. He still couldn't force himself to stop though; it felt too good to have something he was in control of and he was doing. Not letting anyone else rule over his life, well that part of it anyway, the brunette really wasn't in a hurry to give that up.

After countless nightmares, the teen was sat on his window ledge gazing out at the stars. He had tried, and obviously failed, to go back to sleep; but that wasn't really his biggest concern. The more pressing issue was how to explain the blood that once again covered his carpet, staining the beige red. So maybe it was a stupid idea to cut in his room, and an even more stupid idea to cut in his room so that he ended up bleeding on his Mom's precious carpet. She really wouldn't be impressed with that at all. Well it wasn't like it was his fault, ok it was but he didn't really care. If she found out about the amount of food he had thrown away earlier he was going to get beaten so why should he stress over this? It would probably just lead to being blown up instead.

That was something he didn't get, if good witches can't use their powers on other good witches then how was his Mom managing? Unless it was the being half angel thing, or there is the slight possibility that if he was thought to be evil her powers would believe he was evil. He really had no idea, if the Elders knew then he doubted that she'd keep her powers but she wasn't going to tell and they'd never listen to a lowly 16 year old boy over the words of a great Charmed One. Mind you, the great all powerful, cough; Elders wouldn't stand a chance against his Mom in a rage, or his Mom deciding to blow them up for that matter. Hell if she could she'd bring the titans back just so she could kill them all, her hate for them really hadn't dissipated over the years. Her hate for the 16 year old though, had grown.

He had memories of good times, well if you counted superimposing his head over his brother's to be a good time, but more of bad. A lot more of bad; memories involving pain, and sadness – and the occasional suicidal one as well, although really what did you expect? The 16 year old was bruised, battered and broken; still fighting yeah, but the resistance was disappearing day by day.

He was tired and in pain, and it was gone 5am when the teen orbed himself onto the bridge in threadbare tracksuit bottoms and a thinning grey long sleeve shirt. He leant against a support beam and gave in allowing the night to take him.

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_Oh my God! It's like over 4,600 words long! And I managed to write it without desperately wanting to cut! Yay! Switch views and it's like 7 pages long! OMG – officially the longest thing I have ever written!_


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Charmed, Hurt-Comfort, Tragedy